


Dusking

by Konstantya



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Chibitalia - Freeform, Dishwashing, Drama, F/M, Gen, Holy Roman Empire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-08-21
Updated: 2009-08-21
Packaged: 2018-05-31 07:31:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6461389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Konstantya/pseuds/Konstantya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Austria does dishes, Hungary thinks he acts like an old man (but a <i>sexy</i> old man!), and the Thirty Years' War looms on the horizon.  Based on the extra Chibitalia strip, "Something Written As the Immediate Effect."  Slight Austria/Hungary.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dusking

**Author's Note:**

> Originally published (on FF.net and LJ) on August 21, 2009. Cross-posted here on April 4, 2016.
> 
> Time period: 1617-ish.

 

Hungary sighed as she entered the kitchen, setting the buckets of water down as she did so. The late afternoon sun streamed in the windows and alighted on the pile of dirty dishes she had yet to wash.

It had been such a busy day. First the Holy Roman Empire had set off in the early morning, and then Spain had come to discuss business with Austria… It had sounded like war talk, but they had retreated to Austria’s offices before she’d heard many of the details. Spain had stayed for dinner, though, and Hungary was glad for the extra company. He was a warm, friendly sort of nation who dispelled a little bit of the recent uneasiness simply with his disposition.

But then he had left, and the uneasiness had crept back, and now Hungary was left with the dishes.

Ah, well. At least she would have little Italy to keep her company. Or at least she usually did. But come to think of it, she hadn’t seen much of him today, had she? Not since Austria had sent him to get water that morning as an excuse to get him out of ear-shot.

She set about to pouring the water in the wash basins—one full of the dirty dishes and one empty, for rinsing—and was so lost in her thoughts, wondering if she should maybe go looking for the little nation just to make sure he was alright, that she didn’t hear the approaching footsteps until they were already entering the room.

“Oh!” she exclaimed, almost spilling water on the floor. “Mr. Austria.”

“Hello, Hungary.” He seemed preoccupied—which was understandable, considering the day’s events.

He was also taking off his coat and rolling up his sleeves in an uncharacteristically casual manner.

“Uh…sir?” She realized she was staring at his bare forearms and blushed, suddenly feeling like a voyeur. Really, she didn’t know what was worse: that she found such a small thing so attractive, or that Austria was so straight-laced that baring his lower arms qualified as flashing some skin.

Austria. Flashing skin. Hungary blushed even more and decided that she should just quit while she was ahead. Crushing on her employer was a bad idea.

He began talking. She figured she should probably pay attention.

“I sent Italy to his room for the rest of the day. He’s obviously upset about the Holy Roman Empire leaving. I didn’t want him working in that state. So,” he said, finally focusing his gaze on her, “I’ll assist you with the chores this evening.”

Hungary blinked.

Austria, if he noticed, was not daunted, and moved toward the basins. “Right. Am I to wash or dry?”

She blinked again, and the question leapt out of her mouth before she had time to think about it. “You actually know how to do dishes?”

He bristled, leveled a foreboding look at her, and the temperature in the room seemed to drop. “I wasn’t quite born into this position, you know.”

Right. Like when she used to send him back to Switzerland with arrows in his rear.

Awkward.

He took a breath—more of a huff really—and carried on. “Besides, now I have to deal with things like bad-tempered, childish empires with illusions of grandeur. It’s a little more important than housework, I’m afraid.”

Without waiting for her opinion on what he task he should take, he reached for the bar of soap, lathered up a cloth, and set about to washing the plates that sat soaking. Hungary moved next to him, feeling very self-conscious about their proximity.

She had three dishes rinsed and dried before she worked up the nerve to speak. “Do…do you really think there will be a war?”

Austria sighed. “Without a doubt. Tensions are too high, unfortunately—even _without_ France stirring up trouble.” He seemed to scrub particularly hard at that.

Worry settled in her stomach as she dipped a plate in the rinse water. “He _did_ seem awfully serious when he left…”

“The Holy Roman Empire?” Austria frowned a little dourly. “War is one of the few things he’s actually concerned with. He’s a foolish youth who doesn’t know how to prioritize.”

At the criticism, she gave him a sideways look and an odd little smile. “And you’re such an old man?” she asked, pointedly. As far as humans went, he barely looked sixteen. He hadn’t even started shaving until recently.

He paused uncomfortably, then continued washing with renewed focus. “The politics and finances aren’t going to take care of themselves.” It was almost an apology, and he added, “Not that he’s ever cared about that—or anything besides Italy and becoming the next Roman Empire.”

 _“You_ generally seem to care more about your music…” she ventured carefully.

“Ah—” he started, flushing in embarrassment. The color in his cheeks made him look younger—more like his actual age, really. He cleared his throat and straightened up a little. “Yes, well—‘all work and no play,’ you know.” This was said, ironically, with the utmost seriousness.

Hungary almost giggled, despite herself. She doubted Austria had ever really “played” in his entire life. Everything was Serious Business to him—even relaxing.

Things fell into a silence after that, the only noises being the sloshing of water and the clinking of plates and silverware. Without the distraction of conversation, she found her attention straying back to his bare arms. And his hands—his gorgeous, gorgeous musician hands…

Gah. First puberty had given her breasts, and now it had turned her into a pervert. For what wasn’t the first time, she really wished she _could_ have just grown a penis and ended up as a man, simple as that.

A bowl slipped out of Austria’s soapy hands then, back into the water with a splash. A drop of suds landed on his spectacles, and he tried to wipe it off with the back of his arm but only succeeded in smearing it.

“Oh!” she said. “Here.” In her nervous enthusiasm, her hands had reached up and were already plucking them off his face before she knew what she was doing. He tried to make some sound—whether of approval or _dis_ approval, she wasn’t sure—but by then she was wiping the lenses clean with her towel. She ducked her head, hoping he wouldn’t find her impertinent for such a thing.

“There,” she said, holding them up to the light, making sure they were free of smudges. Glancing up at him, she held them out.

Austria quirked an eyebrow but didn’t seem too offended. “Ah…I suppose if you could replace them…” He displayed his wet hands rather helplessly.

“Oh. O-okay.” She swallowed a bit nervously, and he dipped his head down. She was suddenly very aware of the heat of his body and the rhythm of his breathing, and tried her hardest not to touch him as she hooked the frames around his ears. It didn’t quite work, and when her finger accidentally brushed the hair near his temple, their eyes caught.

She jerked her hands down, fidgeting with her towel, trying to cover fingers that might have been trembling. Her face felt as red as one of Spain’s tomatoes.

“Thank you,” he fairly mumbled, wriggling his nose a little to adjust the frames, a blush tinting his own cheeks. He turned back and scrubbed at a pot with unnecessary focus and intensity.

The pot was exchanged. She had to force herself not to jump when their hands almost touched. “Uh—how’s Italy doing?” she suddenly asked.

He seemed as grateful for the subject change as she. “He seemed quite upset earlier… I could tell he’d been crying.” His eyebrows drew together in a rare show of concern.

Hungary thought it was a bit of a shame that Austria was so preoccupied with presenting a cool, austere exterior; he could have been quite kind if his personality ever permitted it. Thoughtfully, she ran the towel over the metal. Italy was a welcome distraction. “I’ll have to peek in on him after we’re done.”

“I’d appreciate it,” he murmured. “You seem to have a calming effect.”

She felt her heart skip, and tried not to read into his words too much.

He continued: “Spain mentioned maybe bringing Romano to visit, if he has time.” There seemed to be a slight emphasis on the last few words, and she could tell he was thinking about the impending war again.

Hungary smiled. “I think he’d like that. Though,”—and she couldn’t help but laugh a little—“Romano probably won’t. But that’s Romano.”

A laugh even escaped Austria at that—though it wasn’t much more than a small, dry smile and an exhale of breath. “Sometimes I almost feel bad for foisting him on Spain,” he confessed, but then the grave young master returned. “Though Veneziano gives me enough trouble, alone. I don’t think my sanity could handle both him _and_ his brother.” It looked as if the mere idea was bringing on a headache.

He handed her the last couple forks and then fished around in the now-dirty water with a slight frown of disgust. Assured no stray utensils were still unwashed, he wrung out the rag and set it on the side of the basin, then gestured toward the mostly-clean rinse water. “May I?”

“Oh. Yes.” Scooting over, she set the forks with the other dry dishes, and he went about giving his hands one last good soaping. By the time he had grabbed the towel, she was already done putting the silverware away and was opening the cupboards against the wall.

“Here, let me,” he said when he saw her toeing a step-stool over, and moved to take the stack of dinner plates from her hands.

“Oh… Are you sure?” A pointless question, as he was already reaching up and placing them on the shelf.

“I told you I’d help,” he reminded her. “Hand me those saucers, will you?”

Hungary did so, a little self-consciously. He was really starting to get rather tall, wasn’t he? And as she couldn’t quite help but watch the stretch of his arms from behind, she noticed his shoulders were starting to catch up in breadth—though it seemed likely he’d always be a little on the slim side.

Realizing she was gawking, she put the kettle on. “I’m going to bring Italy some tea. Would you like any?”

He turned to her. His spectacles had started to slide down his nose, and he pushed them up. “Yes, actually,” he admitted. “Tea sounds quite nice.”

They put the rest of the dishes away as the water boiled, then she brought out the tea paraphernalia as he started rolling his sleeves back down. Hungary felt a stab of disappointment at that. He did _not,_ however, put his coat back on immediately, and instead took a seat in the chair he had draped it over. A few minutes passed in relatively easy silence.

“…I hope you won’t be overworked. Now that it’s just you and Italy.”

“Oh,” she said, looking over at him, a little caught off guard by the concern. She had just come in from dumping the dishwater outside and stood, drying her hands, catching her breath a little. Checking the tea and beginning to pour it, she smiled tremulously. “It might be a little hectic,” she admitted. “Italy’s usually good about helping me, though.”

His eyebrows raised in genuine surprise at that. Hungary was tempted to mention that gentle corrections and promises to play games if his chores were finished was a lot more effective with the little nation than pinning him to the floor under one’s boot and throwing him in the cellar, but she thought better of it. It was rare that she actually _talked_ with Austria, and she found herself enjoying it too much to risk ruining it. Not only that, but she didn’t want to risk ending up in the cellar, herself. Sometimes he could be so touchy, especially if he already had things on his mind, like he did now.

He rubbed his chin a little, as if he had a beard to stroke thoughtfully. Even as far as _countries_ went, he seemed too old for his shoes; Hungary didn’t know if that was funny, or sad, or both. “Perhaps I should hire a couple extra hands… Maybe the palace could recommend someone…” Then he grimaced, rubbing his forehead in worry.

Finances, probably. Especially with a war coming up, as he was saying.

“Well,” she said, bringing him his tea, “we’ll see how we manage. Though if your coffee’s late, you’ll know why,” she joked.

That made him grimace again, though it was less grim and more disappointed. “I _hate_ sacrificing luxuries.” And he sighed, ever the aristocrat.

She turned around, to both grab the tray and hide her amusement. When she felt composed, she turned back. “Well,” she said briskly, walking toward the door, “I guess I’ll bring Italy his tea and then light the lamps, since it’s starting to get dark.” Dusk was setting in and the kitchen was more warm shadows than warm sunlight.

Austria stood. A force of habit, for when a lady left a room. Unconscious on his part, but it brought yet another blush to her face. She couldn’t remember it ever happening before, and it made her wonder if he perhaps saw her as a companion then, instead of a servant.

He shook his head, shrugging his coat over his shoulders. “No, I’ll light the lamps. You take care of Italy.”

She paused. “Oh. Well thank you.” He stepped a little closer. “And…thank you for helping with the dishes.” She was _really_ glad the room was dim. Tomatoes, tomatoes, tomatoes.

He straightened his coat. Almost fidgeted with it, really. “You’re welcome. And…thank you as well.” His eyebrows drew together solemnly. “I…I worry I don’t say it enough, perhaps. So thank you.”

Expressing gratitude: Serious Business.

She couldn’t help the smile. “You’re welcome.”

Even he smiled a little at that, and they looked at each other until it started to get awkward.

“Well, I should really get this tea to him,” she suddenly said, dropping her eyes to the tray she held.

“Yes, yes,” he said, quickly, looking off to the side to his own cup. “I still need to drink mine.”

“Well…”—her feet were already moving toward the door—“have a good evening, then.”

“To you, too.”

Hungary managed one more glance at him on her way out the doorway, and then practically fled down the hall that led to the servants’ quarters, her heart racing and her cheeks on fire. The low sun streamed in what few windows it still could, all orange glows and sharp shadows, and she almost wished the mansion could stay like that—half-comforting and half-ominous, both revealing and hiding any number of secrets.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Regarding Italy's gender, it's kind of all screwy in the comics since Austria would still be under the impression he's a girl, but, like, Hungary has actually bathed with him, so you'd think _she'd_ know, if no one else (and would presumably tell someone, "Oh yeah, she's a he, by the way")? In the end I just threw my hands up and decided to go with masculine pronouns just to make things easier on myself, haha.


End file.
